


Opposites

by Sulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A response to a prompt from , who dropped it into my <a href="http://users.livejournal.com/sulla_/343595.html">open prompt post</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opposites

John Watson was a neat man. His time in the army had only reinforced what was already second nature to him, and his neatness showed in everything he did. His cooking was neat - after each item was used, it was put back in its' place, and the food on the plates was always rigidly separate, each item having its' own space. His room was neat - bed made with military precision, clothes hung properly, spare of decoration and never a drawer left open. His doctoring was neat - his instructors at Bart's had exclaimed over the neatness of his stitches and incisions, and the senior doctors in the field lauded his surgical prowess. His clothes were clean, if a little older, and he preferred to call his taste in jumpers 'sensible' as opposed to 'drab'.

John was a very neat man, and as a neat man, he like the things around him to be neat. But there was one notable exception.

Sherlock Holmes was, for lack of a better word, messy. He had the same effect on his surroundings as that of a hurricane, cyclone or tsunami -- in other words, he, when compared to John, was a natural disaster.

Heads in the fridge. Eyeballs in the microwave. Teeth and bone fragments in the breadbox. A bedroom that was next to inaccessible due to various experiments in various stages of completion and/or decomposition. Bed never made - crumbs of food scattered throughout the sheets. He was a nightmare in the WC - soggy towels on the floor, toothpaste all over the sink (and other places; his artistic leavings giving John a toothpaste moustasche every time he looked in the mirror), and Sherlock couldn't aim when urinating if his life depended on it. His laptop was a mess as well - blood test info under the "My Music" folder, ballistics data under "My Photos" and graphic and disturbing images of necrotizing human flesh hiding like little aneurysm-inducing bombs laid higgledy-piggledy throughout the various file folders.   
Hence John's aversion to Sherlock 'borrowing' his laptop. John did not need to see the rotting genitalia of a murder victim in his "My Documents" folder before breakfast, thanks.

In spite of his neatness and Sherlock's, well, disaster, there was something that drew John to the detective. Yes, he was amazed and astounded and all sorts of other words that meant he thought Sherlock was bloody brilliant, but beyond that there was something that made John not want to spend time with anyone else. Even when Sherlock's petty digs and childish tantrums forced him away, John would always come back, ready to forgive and forget.

It was during his fifth attempt at wooing a woman since moving in with Sherlock that John realized that he might actually feel something more than friendship and admiration for his flatmate. He found himself, as usual, spending the entire date describing Sherlock to the beautiful Mandy, a very nice shopkeeper in her early 30's whom he had met about a week before. By the time they were finished with the main course, Mandy had stopped eating, looked him full in the face, and asked him if he was trying to set her up with Sherlock or if he might be happier with the detective himself.

John didn't respond for several gobsmacked moments, and had to remind himself to close his gaping mouth. Good god, it didn't sound _that_ bad, did it? They spent the rest of the date circling around the topic of Sherlock, as everything John talked about led back to the man, and Mandy had ended the date with a terse "I'll call you". John didn't think that she would, and he couldn't much blame her. He walked home on that blustery night, finally thinking about the unthinkable. Could he possibly be interested in a man? And beyond that, interested in a man as unsociable, unfriendly and even, dare he say, _unclean_ as Sherlock?

Sherlock, he knew, was uninterested in John, and that had to be a fact. The man was oblivious to such social conventions as maintaining a friendship, let alone a sexual relationship. The only time John had ever heard the man bring up sex in any way was in relation to a case, and it was always with a faint distaste that he mentioned it. He was a difficult man to have a friendship with - he was imperious, pugnacious, pedantic and downright infantile at times, the mixture of which made him unbearable to pretty much anyone other than John. Even Sherlock's brother Mycroft seemed to put up with him out of some sort of misplaced sense of responsibility for his safety. Sherlock had 'clients', 'acquaintances' and 'enemies', and that was about it for relationships. Even his own relationship with Sherlock had been tense lately, and John had been wondering if he was going to be shifted to one of the aforementioned groupings sometime soon. He never knew what went on in the man's head, and recently he had been more inscrutable than ever.

When John reached the flat that night, hair mussed and clothing buffeted by the wind, he had come to the conclusion that even if he did feel more for Sherlock than friendship, and that indeed seemed the case, it was unlikely that Sherlock would feel the same in return. He climbed the stairs to the flat almost in a daze, completely ignorant to his state of dress and the image he presented at the moment. If he'd looked into the mirror, he would have seen a wide-eyed man with absently tufted hair sticking out all over the place, shirt untucked, jumper askew, favoring one leg as he always did when he was deep in thought.

He entered the sitting room, only to find Sherlock standing in the middle of a massive pile of newspapers clippings laid out in every square inch of floor space. John took one deep breath, about to rip into Sherlock for making such a mess, as usual, but stopped at the look on the man's face. It was...surprised. Perhaps even shocked. John watched the man's eyes take him in from head to foot and back to head again, and he suddenly realized that the detective was trembling, and he had spots of high colour on his cheeks. What on earth?

He had time to open his mouth and take the first breath needed to make a word before he was hit by a barreling Sherlock. John was slammed up against the wall by the larger man, just barely avoiding a nasty knock to the head, and had his shoulders pinned to the wall by large hands. Suddenly they were nose to nose, eye to eye, not two inches apart. John's breathing hitched, and his cock began to swell. Could this... oh god, could this be...

Yes, apparently it could, thought John giddily as their lips met. It was almost tentative at first, just lips touching, a light flick of Sherlock's tongue to run along John's lower lip. John opened his mouth in a gasp, only to suddenly find the man's tongue in his mouth, touching and licking his own tongue. John's hands came to rest on Sherlock's hips, and the man growled his pleasure at the move. Sherlock's right hand came up to clasp John behind the neck, thumb on his cheek, angling John's head just right to open up further to his kiss. The other hand went south.

When John felt Sherlock's hand clasp his erection through his trousers, he grew slightly suspicious, and wondered if he was being manipulated for some obscure reason known only to Sherlock. Since when was Sherlock interested in _anything_ sexual? So John moved his own hand from Sherlock's hip to the middle of his body, there to find an equally hard cock of substantial size. John's hand twitched involuntarily, squeezing the prick in his hand, squeezing a grunt from Sherlock's throat that was muted by their still-kissing lips.

John's mind was working overtime. When why what how huh? was the basic run of his thoughts. But he was not given much more time to analyze the situation. Sherlock broke from his lips with a gasp as he used his hands to grab John by the shoulders and turn him to face the wall, and he did so with with such force that John had to bring his hands up fast to stop himself from becoming intimately involved with the wallpaper. He braced himself at arm's length from the wall and turned his head over his shoulder to look at Sherlock, askance.

Sherlock's attention was very much on the lower portion of John's body. John watched as the other man's eyes devoured his body, and both hands grabbed at his arse, a cheek in each hand for a moment before both hands moved around front to wrestle with John's belt and the clasp of his trousers. Sherlock's hair was wild, his black curls all over the place, and his grey eyes were riveting, pinned on John's arse as they were. John finally found his voice as Sherlock pushed down first his trousers, and then grabbed the edge of his pants, easing them down and over his hard-on carefully so as not to catch it on the material. Both garments dropped to John's feet.

"Sherlock, what are you do-"

"Shh."

"But-"

"You want it, don't you."

John was nearly as taken aback by this question as he had been by this sudden 'attack'. Oh god, yes he did. He really, really did. But _why_ was this happening now? He asked the man that question right then.

"Because you looked _edible_ standing there on the threshold, all mussed up and freshly aware of your feelings for me. This is what you want. What you _need_ , John"

"Yesssss," hissed John, not in the least surprised bit by Sherlock's deduction of his feelings.

"Tell me you want it"

John hissed as Sherlock's hand, which was somehow slippery with what John could only assume was a lubricant of some sort, grasped his cock. "Yes....I want it," he whispered.

"Again."

"I want it. I want it, Sherlock. God help me, I want you to... fuck me," this last was dropped back into a whisper again.

"I knew it -" Sherlock gasped, one hand stroking John's cock and dropping down to fondle his balls as his other hand worked behind John's back, seemingly undoing his own trousers and dropping his pants. John heard the buckle clinking as it hit the floor.

John dropped his head so that his forehead hit the wall with a dull thud. His breathing was increased, almost to the point of panting, and his cock was harder than he remembered it ever being. Losing control like this was something thoroughly new to him, and he reveled in the sensation.

The hand on his cock disappeared, and Sherlock grabbed his own right hand and urged him to wank himself off. John happily took up the task as he felt the cheeks of his arse being separated with one hand and a a dribble of wetness running down the cleft. Then a thumb was rubbed over his hole, circling and teasing, never entering, driving John crazy.

"Do it!" he gasped, and was mollified when the thumb pierced his arsehole, burying itself deep inside him. Sherlock was kissing a line across his shoulders and stopped to plant a moderately hard bite on his neck, causing John to groan. At this, the thumb was taken out of him and without a moment's wait, three fingers were dug into his arse, spreading him wide.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes?"

John didn't answer, only pushed his hips back against the invading digits, taking in as much of Sherlock as he could at the moment. He could feel the tip of Sherlock's prick nudging at the back of his thigh and buttocks, dotting his skin with slippery little slicks of pre-come.

"What do you want inside you, John? Do you want my fingers, or something else?"

John was frustrated at being made to talk, when what he was desperate for was for action. After all, this was all new to him, and he just wanted to get to the fucking. "I want your dick, Sherlock, and you fucking know it. So have at it, or fuck off!"

Sherlock snorted, but apparently got the message. He quickly took his fingers out of John's arse, who felt the emptiness of his body almost painfully for several moments as his body tried to close his hole again. But then the head of Sherlock's cock was lodged in his arse, and there was no going back. Actually, he tried pushing back, but this time Sherlock held him in place. Again John looked over his shoulder, only to see Sherlock staring down at where his cock entered John's body. John faced forward again and rested his head on the wall, silently entreating Sherlock to hurry the fuck up.

Sherlock began to dip the head of his cock in and out of John's body, seeming to enjoy watching John's hole open to take him and then trying to wink shut when he pulled out. He did this for some time, and John began to growl himself and tried yet again to force himself back. Finally Sherlock took the hint and, using both hands on either side of John's hips, he stood still and pulled John's body back, watching as his cock was eaten up by John's arse. John moaned gutturally and circled his hips back onto the cock inside him, and clenched down several times to remind him of the fullness he held inside himself. Sherlock moaned in response to this, and finally, _finally_ began thrusting repeatedly into John's body.

John sighed with relief as Sherlock's cock churned inside him. Sherlock built the pace up until finally he was pulling almost all the way out, only to shove back in as hard as he could, driving himself against John's prostate with every stroke, making John grunt lowly each time. John pumped his cock frantically, and palmed his testicles as he leaned his forehead against the wall, supporting himself. Sherlock gripped John's hips hard and pushed in even harder, grinding himself up against John's body, not even pulling out. He licked, kissed and even gnawed on John's neck, and finally reached a hand up under his shirt and jumper to pinch his nipples.

This was enough for John. He worked his cock two or three more times and came with a low groan, his come spasming out of his prick, leaving several globs of fluid dripping down the wallpaper. His body twitched and clenched with his release, bringing even more pleasure to Sherlock, who finally shoved his whole body up against John, mashing him against the sticky wall, mouthing John's unruly hair and simply rutting into his arse. He came with a long sigh, and John's only real clue that he had finished was the spasming of Sherlock's cock inside John's rectum, every twitch of which John could feel in great detail.

The two men stood still, breathing heavily for some time. Neither said a word. John could feel Sherlock's dick wilting inside him, and the man's cock eventually fell out of John's body, leaving his hole to finally try to close back down to its regular size and tightness. As soon as his cock left John's body, Sherlock dropped to his knees, and spread John's cheeks again, watching as the hole worked to close.

John felt hugely embarrassed. "Do you really need to do that, Sherlock?"

"Mhm," Sherlock replied, barely listening, seemingly enraptured by what he was seeing. John could feel a slow drip of Sherlock's semen trailing down the inside of his leg, and could imagine how wet his hole must look, dripping with Sherlock's come. Finally John pulled away.

"I think we need to talk, Sherlock," he said, reaching down to grab his pants and trousers, pulling them up, for the time being disregarding the sticky wetness both in front and behind.

Sherlock stayed on his knees on the floor, still surrounded by newspaper clippings. "What? Why?"

John gestured helplessly. "Why? This! What just happened!"

Sherlock crooked an eyebrow up at him. "What _did_ just happen?"

"You tell me!"

"You finally realised your feelings for me. That was obvious the moment you walked in."

John was perplexed. "How the hell do you know what I was thinking when I barely knew it myself?"

"Oh, I knew it the day we met."

*****


End file.
